Wmason
09-21-2007, 07:17 AM
There was a cold glimmering stupid in the distance. A neat pile of wind covered rubber duckies were making their way along the river's edge, pernicky spoofs dwindling down their yellowish sides.
“What’s wrong little duckling in the back? Is the wind too pernicious for you?” asked the mother duckling addressing the little one faltering behind the others.
It hadn’t the capacity for speech at this time, but as is the case with most rubber duckies, it had already vouchsafed itself to a life of scholarly readership- disseminating knowledge to the rubbery masses, and writing volumes of eminent works on social welfare, and successful leadership skills- all this with a lean sticky pen, tucked away in its back, named after a happy friend from the artic circle- Luminous.
The duckies marched along the bank of the river, fir trees and chocolate covered cabbage nests rolling to their right, and from the distance, floating liveries of butlers with muffin hats greeted the traveling families with hearty wishes and waves of brandished cutlery.
The little one still faltered on, Luminous weighing heavily on its back. At last, when the time came to rest, they sat, like Bedouins, around a freshly lit fire, the evening dusk waning with the descent of the sun behind an irksome hill a few yards away. Luminous yielded to the presses of its master, sketching the outline of the hills, that one in the middle with the whitish peak of lavender bushes, the reddish almost oil-like, setting sun-lit outline, and so little one stared heavily at the paper on the ground, its brows twining with the movements of its loyal pen.
“You shouldn’t so quickly” admonished the mother. It was too late; the little one had already entered a groove of sorts, a dream-like state which philosophers are wont to enter, whilst the rest, in this case, the rest of the duckling family, slept with their feathery bosoms against the woolish river bank.
Night has come, from the hill, groups of men, were approaching, in their hands bath tub accessories of every sort, others championed torches with brewing flames, the seditious light of which not even the French revolution had witnessed.
”Down with the ducklings” they screamed, but those addressed remained asleep, with the exception of the little one, who, inspired by impending doom, began to write with a zeal he could never have known possible; in his mind the eyes of posterity swam the pages of his words.
The men had surrounded the family. The river reflected their wonton fires, bubbling budding flames that gurgled even the salmon fishes in the water. As they towered with fiery eyes, the men waved their bathroom accessories over the heads of the ducklings, who, it might be added, felt that the scene lacked some sort of melodramatic response to their unnecessary misfortune.
A few minutes later the men packed their belongings and left the scene, in greenish flannel bags, they carried their most cherished prize, four yellow rubber duckies, batteries not included.
“What’s wrong little duckling in the back? Is the wind too pernicious for you?” asked the mother duckling addressing the little one faltering behind the others.
It hadn’t the capacity for speech at this time, but as is the case with most rubber duckies, it had already vouchsafed itself to a life of scholarly readership- disseminating knowledge to the rubbery masses, and writing volumes of eminent works on social welfare, and successful leadership skills- all this with a lean sticky pen, tucked away in its back, named after a happy friend from the artic circle- Luminous.
The duckies marched along the bank of the river, fir trees and chocolate covered cabbage nests rolling to their right, and from the distance, floating liveries of butlers with muffin hats greeted the traveling families with hearty wishes and waves of brandished cutlery.
The little one still faltered on, Luminous weighing heavily on its back. At last, when the time came to rest, they sat, like Bedouins, around a freshly lit fire, the evening dusk waning with the descent of the sun behind an irksome hill a few yards away. Luminous yielded to the presses of its master, sketching the outline of the hills, that one in the middle with the whitish peak of lavender bushes, the reddish almost oil-like, setting sun-lit outline, and so little one stared heavily at the paper on the ground, its brows twining with the movements of its loyal pen.
“You shouldn’t so quickly” admonished the mother. It was too late; the little one had already entered a groove of sorts, a dream-like state which philosophers are wont to enter, whilst the rest, in this case, the rest of the duckling family, slept with their feathery bosoms against the woolish river bank.
Night has come, from the hill, groups of men, were approaching, in their hands bath tub accessories of every sort, others championed torches with brewing flames, the seditious light of which not even the French revolution had witnessed.
”Down with the ducklings” they screamed, but those addressed remained asleep, with the exception of the little one, who, inspired by impending doom, began to write with a zeal he could never have known possible; in his mind the eyes of posterity swam the pages of his words.
The men had surrounded the family. The river reflected their wonton fires, bubbling budding flames that gurgled even the salmon fishes in the water. As they towered with fiery eyes, the men waved their bathroom accessories over the heads of the ducklings, who, it might be added, felt that the scene lacked some sort of melodramatic response to their unnecessary misfortune.
A few minutes later the men packed their belongings and left the scene, in greenish flannel bags, they carried their most cherished prize, four yellow rubber duckies, batteries not included.